Unexpected

by Soledad

Title: Unexpected

Author: Soledad

Fandom: "The Hobbit" by JRR Tolkien

Genre: Friendship, Romance

Rating: Adult. Definitely.

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

Summary: Fíli and Kíli make an unexpected friend while visiting Elrond's house. Meanwhile, Erestor also finds himself in an unexpected situation. A side story to "Innocence", with all the Elf/Elf stuff it entails.

Introduction

This story was originally meant to make up three interconnected chapters of my never-ending Lindir story, Innocence, which also can be found on . That story ran into a massive block some years ago, but this part was already written. Since I have no idea when I would get with the main story far enough to insert this part – if ever – and since it can be considered as a fic for "The Hobbit", I decided to rework it to a certain extent and post it as an independent story.

Reading "Innocence" is not required, but it would make a lot easier to understand the background of some characters appearing here. This is a strictly bookverse fic, based on my own head canon, in which Lindir is a foundling, raised by Radagast the Brown, and has been Erestor's spouse for centuries by the time this story takes place.

These are the same events described in "The Hobbit": Bilbo, Gandalf and the Dwarves visit Imladris on their way to Erebor. The idea that Lindir is the one who greets them at the bridge (having the young boy Estel in his care) is mine alone. None of the individual Imladris Elves were ever discussed in "The Hobbit", so I had a certain poetic licence in this matter. Of course, the merry song as well as certain lines of dialogue are taken from the book itself.

Part 01: The Arrival

[Imladris, on the 15th day of lairë in the year 2941 of the Third Age](1)

It was early morning when Erestor awoke – and a beautiful morning at that, the warm, golden beams of Anor falling directly upon his face through the open balcony windows. And though he knew well what few people knew – how the mild climate of the Valley was provided – he still could not cease wondering about it.

As centuries went by, Elrond grew stronger and more skilled with the wielding of earth magic (inherited from the foremother of his line, Melian the Maia herself) and the Ring of Air, and he succeeded with his subtle adjustments made to the weather almost without exceptions. And since Arwen Undómiel had reached her maturity and grew to the living likeness of Lúthien not in beauty only but in power as well, the weather had been mild and even all the time – reasonably cold in the fading and winter seasons, not all too hot during summer, and marvellous in stirring, spring and autumn. Even among Elven realms, Imladris remained unique… for Erestor, born and grown up in stone cities, far surpassing even the dreamy woods of Lothlórien.

He yawned, stretched in his usual, subdued manner and got out of bed, wrapping himself into a simple woollen robe against the slight chill of the fair morning. Lindir was long gone, of course, having left an hour ago or more to greet the sunrise as was his wont from early childhood on. But Erestor could hear the faint, sweet tones of his flute from the adjoining chambers that he had occupied before their wedding.

The young minstrel kept the wide, airy room that used to serve as his study and bedchamber, all in one, in his youth – for practicing his music and for the rare times when he needed some privacy, apart even from his beloved spouse. After all those years in Imladris (including eleven centuries spent in happy matrimony), he still was a shy, child-like creature, and keeping this last refuge gave him a feeling of safety.

Choosing the shortest way, Erestor stepped onto the balcony that connected their rooms and walked over to the study of his spouse. He found Lindir in the middle of the sunlit chamber, sitting with crossed legs on a flat pillow, eyes shut, long fingers dancing vigorously upon the slender silver flute.

Once again, Erestor could not help but admire that wondrous instrument, crafted in the Blessed Realm – in Lord Aulë's smithy, no less – and given to Lindir by the wizard Aiwendil. There was only one matching flute in the whole Middle-earth, and it belonged to Thranduil, the Elvenking of Eryn Galen, called Mirkwood in these dark days. Thingol himself brought that flute from his first and only visit in Aman, and he gave it his grand-nephew when Thranduil's musical talent showed – at least so Legolas, the King's son said, and why would he lie?

In his childhood years, while fostered by Aiwendil, Lindir occasionally came to visit the Greenwood, and Thranduil sometimes played with him, teaching him the wilder, more exotic melodies of the Wood-Elves and the Avari – and right now Lindir was playing one of those woodland songs, wild and sweet and full of longing at the same time.

Erestor shook his head with a smile. Despite all that Vanyarin and Telerin blood in his veins, Lindir still was a Wood-Elf in the heart of his hearts, more comfortable with the birds and the beasts than with other Elves (not to mention mortals), and even talking to the trees every now and then. Of course, what else could one expect from someone who spent his childhood years with Aiwendil, Iarwain and the River-Daughter? And yet he would not want Lindir to be any different.

For a while he remained on the balcony, admiring the exquisite beauty of his young spouse through the open window. In the pale golden light of the morning sun Lindir looked even more delicate than usual – fragile, sweet and oh so vulnerable, and Erestor's heart was so full of love for him that he feared it would burst.

After all those centuries, he still could not understand how this gifted and beautiful youngling (and one of noble birth, at that) could have chosen him to share his life and his soul with. Elven lords and ladies of princely Houses or even the Maiar themselves would have succumbed to his beauty, had he chosen to sail to the West. And yet he chose to remain in Middle-earth, and he chose Erestor, an orphan of common birth and moderate wisdom, not even a warrior anymore.

Erestor still failed to understand what Lindir saw in him, but he ceased to ask any longer. He accepted his good fortune with gratitude and tried to make his spouse as happy as it was within his powers.

It seemed that Lindir felt his presence – as always – for he stopped playing, set his flute aside and rose gracefully to welcome him.

"Good morning, melme," he smiled, giving Erestor a chaste kiss on the mouth. "Have you slept well? You tossed a lot during the night again."

"I had weird dreams," Erestor admitted, rubbing his temples absent-mindedly, "but that was to be expected. We shall be having a crescent Moon tonight."

For ever since he had been mauled by those werewolves in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad, he kept having nightmares, or strange dreams at the very least, whenever Ithil entered this particular phase. Only during the yearly anniversaries of that battle was it even worse.

"You were up early, once again," he added, changing the topic, as there was absolutely nothing he could have done against the dreams, "Have you, by chance, taken a look at today's schedule already?"

Lindir nodded. "Mithrandir should arrive by sunset, or so the birds say. They came at sunrise to announce his coming. Other than that, nothing unusual for today."

"Mithrandir?" Erestor repeated in surprise. "He has not been here since the last meeting of the White Council! What dire news might follow him this time, I wonder?"

For the Grey Pilgrim was a rare visitor indeed, coming only at times of great peril or dire need, unless the Council meeting had been summoned to Imladris.

"I know not," Lindir replied, "but the birds say he has a whole company of Naugrim(2) with him. Now, why would he want to bring such ridiculous creatures to Imladris?"

"Lindir," Erestor warned him sternly, "mind you manners! The Dwarves are a proud people and quick to anger, so be careful around them."

"Proud of their beards that are longer than themselves?" laughed Lindir, with tears of mirth in his eyes. "Let us hope they shall not get caught in all that bramble and fell onto their own axes while stumbling down the rocky path that leads to our Valley."

Erestor shook his head in exasperation. Being an Elf from Eregion, he had much more respect for Dwarves and their craft than Elves usually did, and knew all too well how easy it was to raise their ire. He did not want for Lindir to get hurt for a light-hearted comment that could be misunderstood.

"I see it will be better when I do welcome them, or else you might get into trouble again," he said. "Do we know how many of them will come with Mithrandir?"

"Thirteen of the Naugrim," replied Lindir, "and an even smaller creature called a hobbit. Is that not the little folk, the Periannath, whose land lies beyond the Old Forest and the River Baranduin? I never saw one of them myself."

"Nor did I," said Erestor, "but the Rangers who watch their borders often tell amusing stories about them. Apparently, they have a healthy appetite, worth of that of two grown Men."

"In that case we should tell the cooks to prepare a huge supper for tonight," laughed Lindir. "Feeding thirteen Naugrim and a Perian must be quite the task."

"It is," agreed Erestor, "though I cannot understand what would inspire a Hobbit to make such a journey. They usually leave their small land only in dire need. Unless…"

"Unless…?" prompted Lindir, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Unless Mithrandir has to do something with it," said Erestor. "'Tis said that he sometimes can talk a few of them into adventures; mostly the young members of one of their greatest clans, the so-called Took-family. Though why he would want to do so is beyond my understanding."

"We can ask him," offered Lindir, which earned him a groan from Erestor.

"Lindir! At least in some things you should listen to your uncle. He has a saying which is very true, and you should follow it: 'Do not meddle with the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.'"

"Gildor is not my uncle," as always, Lindir felt the need to emphasize that point, "and I have been meddling with the affairs of wizards since… since my birth, almost. I can handle them."

"You can handle Aiwendil," Erestor corrected, "for you are practically his son. Mithrandir is another matter entirely."

"That might be. But he likes me nevertheless," pointed out Lindir with adorable self-confidence, and Erestor had to laugh at that.

"Everyone likes you, love, but that means not that you cannot get into trouble. Now, why do you not practice a little more, 'til I wash and get dressed? Then we can go to the kitchen, get some breakfast and speak to Master Lalwen and her people about the guests?"

Lindir agreed with the proposal, and half an hour later they were heading towards the huge, arched kitchen of the Last Homely House. Master Lalwen, the bread-maker and Master Ormain, the head cook, took the news about fourteen additional people to be fed rather calmly. They had had two Ages to grow used to unexpected visitors.

Erestor then went to prepare the accommodations in one of the guest houses – since the Dwarves were coming with Mithrandir, he decided to put them into the guest wing of the Great House. Lindir parted ways with him after that, to look after his own duties. Midsummer was approaching quickly once again, and it was the young minstrel's responsibility that preparations would be made.

A few of the younger Elves – among them Elladan and Elrohir, who had just returned from the wilderness in this very morrow – were planning to have a merry feast near the western gate of the Valley, with lots of feywine and even more singing under the stars on a small clearing, well-hidden under the beeches and oaks. Elladan promised Erestor that he would greet the guests properly, and so the seneschal, albeit a little reluctantly, agreed to entrust him with this delicate business.

Thus lanterns and wine and plates of freshly-baked seed cake were brought to the feasting place, and Elrohir brought forth his harp and Lindir brought his flute and some of the other Elves brought artfully carved wooden frames in which silver bells of different sizes were hanging in three, six or twelve rows. Playing the bell-frames was considered quite difficult, but when several good players came together, the music sounded like the conversation of hidden birds over a waterfall – it was simply enchanting.

Elrond had been relieved to see his sons caring for anything else than Orc-hunting for a change, so he had no objections. Elladan could handle strangers rather well (in fact, often better than his own people), so the Master of Imladris could be reasonably certain that custom would be respected. Besides, Mithrandir always seemed to have a special fondness for Elladan and often spent long hours with him, discussing the fate and the history of the Edain. Elrohir, on the other hand, preferred Elven visitors, and of all the Istari, he had the closest ties to Aiwendil.

Despite being twins, his sons were truly different both in nature and in interests. Had not the fate of their mother forged a unique bond of vengeance between them, their lives might have drifted apart hundreds of years ago – and Elrond would have preferred that to this single-minded crusade that had been eating up their lives for the last four hundred years. For this was no life for an Elf, and it had an upsetting likeness to the obsession of the Fëanorians. So far, the only victims of his sons' obsession had been Orcs, and they deserved no mercy, but one day someone else might get hurt.

One could say that it had already happened, thought Elrond glumly. Certainly, the Chieftains of the Dúnedain would have fought the Orcs without the twins too, just as they had always done. Still, it could not be denied that the presence of the immortal Elven warriors made them more reckless, and that both Arador and Arathorn had been slain while with his sons.

Not that the Dúnedain had accused them of endangering their Chieftains. They were accustomed to hardness and sorrow. Nevertheless, Elrond could not help but feel pity for the Lady Gilraen who had got married – and widowed – at such a young age, even for a mortal, and whose life now was over, no matter how long she was about to live still. She was the widow of the Chieftain and custom did not allow her to marry again, even if she would want to.

Elrond sighed and stepped out onto the balcony, looking own the path where the young Elves were walking westwards. He recognized Elladan and Elrohir at once, and Lindir was unmistakable, too, with his pale golden hair and little Estel riding on his back. The child was truly fortunate to have a friend in Lindir – they might have been greatly different in age and stature, but they were kindred spirits nonetheless.

One day – soon, as Elves counted time – Estel will outgrow Lindir, if not in wisdom, then certainly in maturity. One day, that small child will learn what Lindir had never learnt and would never be willing to learn: to wield a weapon and to take a life. Elrond would have preferred that Estel had never had to learn it, either. But he knew it better. To protect one's innocence, another one always had to give up his or her own.

Lindir and the sons of Elrond were having a merry time indeed, sharing the feywine with their friends generously and feeding little Estel all the seed cakes he wanted.

"He will be sick before supper at this rate," warned Elrohir laughing.

"That is why he will not get any supper," replied Lindir lightly. "Tell me, do the two of you know anything about those guests we are expecting? Aside of Mithrandir, I mean."

"We have met only two of them before, years ago, when we were Orc-hunting in the Blue Mountains," answered Elrohir. "Balin and his brother, Dwalin. We passed by the company at daybreak, though, and listened a little to their grumbling, so we learnt the names of a few of them, before all that of their leader, one Thorin Oakenshield. They seemed not too happy, but I think Mithrandir had them well under control."

"They called the Hobbit Mr. Baggins," Elladan added, smiling, "and properly so, I daresay, for he truly looks like a bag – a small and rather empty one at this time, I may add."

"When are they about to arrive?" asked one of the other Elves.

Elrohir looked up to Anor, now sinking steadily towards the West. "They should be here in any moment… unless Mithrandir got lost. In which case we shall have to ride out again and search for them."

"Mithrandir does not get lost so easily," said Elladan. "They will be here on time."

"Should we not prepare a greeting song for them?" proposed Lindir with a grin. "It does not happen every day that we have Naugrim visiting Imladris. The last time was when Erestor helped them out with their war against the Orcs in the Battle of Nanduhirion."

The proposal was accepted with great enthusiasm. With Elrohir's help – whose poetic skills in the Common Speech were the best from all Elves present – when the last green had almost faded out of the grass upon the open glade above the banks of the Loudwater, the greeting song, too, was finished. It had a very merry melody, like laughter in the trees, and the words were not too respectful, to tell the truth, but the young Elves had great fun singing it. Teasing Dwarves and laughing at them had often been a favourite pastime of elflings and younglings, and save Elrond's sons, most participants of this particular feast were rather young. No elflings anymore, but still young and merry.

Finally, the one who had been sent out to watch the path came running and laughing among the trees.

"They are coming!" she called in excitement. At that, everyone grabbed his or her instrument, and following Lindir's lead they began to sing.

O! What are you doing,

And where are you going?

Your ponies need shoeing!

The river is flowing!

O! tra-la-la-lally

here down in the valley!

O! What are you seeking,

And where are you making?

The faggots are reeking,

The hammocks are baking!

O! tri-lil-lil-lolly,

the valley is jolly,

ha! Ha!

So they laughed and sang in the shadow of the trees, while the thirteen Dwarves, the Hobbit and the wizard were descending into the valley with great care.

"Well, well!" commented Elrohir in an amused voice, "Just look at that, will you? A Hobbit from the Shire, riding a pony with a bunch of Dwarves, my dear! Is it not delicious?"

"Most astonishingly wonderful," replied Lindir, only half-jesting, for his eyes never left the Hobbit – the first such creature he had ever seen in all his life. "Do you think they gave him a hard time along the way? Mayhap he would like to rest among us for a while first."

The others laughed and off they went into the rest of the song, as ridiculous as the first part had been.

O! Where are you going

With beards all a-wagging?

No knowing, no knowing

What brings Mister Baggins

And Balin and Dwalin

down into the valley

in June

ha! ha!

O! Will you be staying,

Or will you be flying?

Your ponies are straying!

The daylight is dying!

To fly would be folly,

To stay would be jolly

And listen and hark

Till the end of the dark

to our tune

ha! ha!

At last Elladan remembered his manners, came out from the trees and bowed to Mithrandir, whom he recognized at once, of course. It would have been hard not to, in truth, considering how often the wizard visited Imladris, coming unexpected and leaving the same way, most of the time.

"Welcome to the valley!" he said. Then he turned to the Dwarves and bowed again, particularly to the one with the great, forked white beard and the scarlet hood. "Master Balin, 'tis good to see you again. It has been a long time."

"Nigh twenty years, give or take a few, I would say," the old Dwarf, whose name was obviously Balin, tilted his head to the side, looking up to the tall, willowy Elf. "'Tis good to see you, too, laddie. Are my old eyes misleading me or have you grown even taller and more spidery in these years?"

"Not very likely," laughed Elladan. "But perhaps you have got shorter and wider, Master Dwarf."

"Wider, perhaps," allowed the Dwarf, "but not shorter. Dwarves do not shrink, you know."

They laughed, while the richly clad Dwarf who appeared to be the leader of their band grunted a half-hearted greeting, too. Mithrandir, of course, was already off his horse, mingling with the young Elves whom he had known for centuries, and talking merrily to them.

"You are a little out of your way," said Elladan to Master Balin of the white beard. "That is if you are aiming for the only path across the Loudwater and to the Great House beyond. We will set you right, but you had best get on foot, until you are over the bridge. Even hill ponies would have a hard time to walk on it with a rider upon their backs."

"Thank you," said the leader of the Dwarves gruffly.

You can, of course, stay and sing with us for a while first," offered Elrohir, his eyes bright with mirth, and the other Elves nearly choked on suppressed laugh. "Unless you want to go straight on to the House, that is."

"Supper is preparing over there," Elladan added. "I can smell the wood-fires for the cooking."

Lindir could see the longing on the round face of the Hobbit and guessed rightly that the little creature would have indeed liked to stay for a while, which spoke of a refined taste and almost made up for his choice of travelling company. Ere he could have said aught, though, one of the Dwarves dismounted and tossed back his dark green hood, revealing a shockingly bald head and a thick, forked beard of very dark, almost bluish black colour. His bare forearms would have put a stone giant to shame, and his tattoos gave him a particularly savage look.

"Songs are for after supper," he growled. "Show us the way to the food, you twig!"

Elladan laughed. "I see, Master Dwalin, that your preferences have not changed since we were hunting Orcs together. Come with me, then, and I shall show you the right place to fill your empty bellies."

Thus on they all went, flanked by the Elves, leading their ponies 'til they were brought to the right path and so at last to the very brink of the River Bruinen. It was flowing fast and noisily – which was the reason why they called it the Loudwater – as mountain-streams do on a summer evening when Anor has been all day on the snow far up above.

The only bridge leading across the river was ancient, hewn of grey, withered stone; it had no parapet and was very narrow indeed – as narrow as a pony could well walk on. The Dwarves held on hesitantly, for they clearly feared the loud waters that were hurrying away in the deep, stony river bed. Showing them that it was safe to cross, Lindir went forth, running over the bridge lightly, with an excited young Estel on his shoulders, and Elrohir followed him at once.

The other Elves had brought down their bright lanterns to the shore and, to everyone's surprise, the Hobbit declared himself ready to give the bridge a try first. He proved remarkably steady-footed, which was understandable with such large feet. They obviously gave him excellent footing, and his bare toes could probably feel it whenever the surface of the stone became a bit uneven. He made it to the other side safely and looked back to the Dwarves, bright-eyed and red-faced with effort and delight.

"Come on!" he called over to them in his light, pleasant voice. "'Tis not as hard as it seems."

The Dwarves seemed more than a little doubtful about that, but they had no other choice than to try. Thus they finally began to go across, slowly and carefully, one by one, each leading his pony by the bridle. They paid no heed to the Elves who were singing another merry song, for they had to watch their heavily booted feet upon the wet stone.

Their leader, the venerable-looking (and extremely stuffy) Dwarf called Thorin seemed the most anxious of all. While the younger ones with those pretty yellow beards crossed fairly easily, Thorin was bent almost onto his hands and knees – a situation he clearly found most humiliating, while the Elves found it highly amusing.

"Do not dip your beard in the foam, father of the Naugrim!" cried Lindir, near to tears from the sheer merriment of that sight, and Estel, still sitting upon his shoulders, laughed in delight. "'Tis long enough without watering it."

"And mind Bilbo does not eat all the cakes!" called Elrohir, ignoring Thorin's murderous glare; Dwarves took it not too kindly when Elves made fun of their beards. "He is too fat to get through key-holes yet!"

This earned him and alarmed look from the other Dwarves, who, of course, could not know that he had overheard their conversation in that very morn. Thorin especially glared at him in anger and deep mistrust.

"Hush, hush! Good people! And good night!" said Mithrandir, who came last, talking to Elladan. "Valleys have ears and some Elves here over merry tongues," he added, with a pointed glare from under those bushy eyebrows of his at Lindir, who only shrugged and ignored him with practiced ease. "Good night!"

And so at last the thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit came to the Great House, and found its doors flung wide. On the doorstep Erestor stood, welcoming them with in the properly ceremonial manner that was required when greeting such a high-ranking Dwarf as Thorin Oakenshield, and servants came to lead them to their chambers.

Lindir left shortly thereafter to put Estel in and sing him into sleep as it was his wont. When the excited child finally fell asleep, he wished Lady Gilraen a peaceful night and went back to his friends for some more singing and feasting, not suspecting that one of those discussions was waiting for him about ill-mannered jests for making fun of Thorin's beard as soon as he would come home.

~TBC~

End notes:

(1) Or 1 Lithe, according the Shire calendar.

(2) Dwarves.